


Season of the Witch

by Sailing the Malky Way (Fan_by_Proxy)



Category: Vampire: The Masquerade – Bloodlines (Video Game)
Genre: Domestic Violence, F/M, Gentle Sex, Gentleness, Mental Anguish, Personal canon SKELTER HAS A SERVICE DOG, Pillow Talk, Rough Kissing, Threats of Violence, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-16
Updated: 2021-02-26
Packaged: 2021-03-18 05:54:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 19,456
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29484786
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fan_by_Proxy/pseuds/Sailing%20the%20Malky%20Way
Summary: Celeste is a Tremere with a sketchy past, living under the lie of being Strauss' Childe. Dissatisfied with being strung along by her adoptive Sire, and trapped in an unironically dead-end job, the librarian has reached a breaking point. The only questions left are "what comes next?" and "is it survivable?"
Relationships: Gary Golden/ Original Tremere Character(s), Gary Golden/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 7





	1. Complications

**Author's Note:**

> Celeste is my Tremere featured in "The Witch and Nos at the Luckee Star" and "Back at Luckee #8 ". Once a librarian, she was illegally sired outside of the Pyramid by a Sire eager to start his own Chantry and keen to get an organized academic under his thumb. To hide the shame and deal with the usurper, Strauss had him killed and projected Celeste as his own Childe; to keep her invested in the Tremere, he's spent the last fifteen years or so making promises about access to the clan's knowledge and structure as long as she played ball and stayed cooperative. During Lacroix's tenure as Prince in LA, Strauss volunteered her for a Camarilla pet project: setting up an Archive in LA. Unfortunately, what's in LA is mostly garbage, ill-kept, ill-sourced, and Celeste is the only one assigned to do anything about it. After starting a wildly passionate affair with the Nosferatu Primogen, Celeste is officially in "what am I doing with my life and _why_ " crisis mode. The final outcome of which you're about to read (enjoy!).

Gary lounged on the bed, hands behind his head, wishing for a cigarette as the thin sheen of sweat covering his body cooled in the barely-there stir of air from the crappy fan overhead. The rumpled bedding under him was scratchy, prickling the new skin that had grown over the considerable amount of scratches the witch had drawn on his back in passionate frenzy. If things kept carrying on this nicely, he was going to have to look around for an upgraded tryst spot. He watched his Princess sit up, smirking at the tangled nest on the back of her head; a longer lasting sign of a job well done, indeed! “Time to get back to work?” He asked, despite being relatively confident of the answer.

“I should.” Celeste said quietly; but instead of moving to the edge of the bed and getting up, she shifted position until she could rest her chin on her knee. “In a few minutes, if we have them?” she asked, eyes flicking shyly towards Gary. Without her glasses, she could mostly make out the general shape of him, and assumed he was smirking.

“Princess, we have until dawn if you _really_ want.” Gary replied, shifting his position so he could watch her face and rest his head on his arm. “I haven’t skimped on the hours since our second date.” he added, chuckling as the faintest flush of pink raced up her neck and tinted her earlobes. “Something on your mind?” The Nosferatu asked, instead of teasing her as he usually did; the past few get-togethers, she’d been distracted at the start. It was time to get the source of the distraction before it really started interfering with their fun.

“I…yes.” Celeste replied, avoiding his inquisitive gaze by studying her toes. The polish Circe had convinced her to try was mostly flaked off; maybe it was time for another spa night with the girls.

Gary frowned. The Tremere didn’t hesitate often, even when she probably should. “Go ahead, princess. I’m all ears, cross my withered heart.” he coaxed.

She bit her lip, scratching at a patch of leftover polish with her nail and flaking it off. “I’m…I miss…” Celeste gave a frustrated sigh. “If I say this to you, I _need_ you not to poke fun at me. I mean that, Gary.”

He sat up a little higher, surprised at the tenderness in her voice. His little witch was getting _vulnerable_ with him, outside of a scene? _That_ was new and exciting. “I won’t. Honestly, truly, not one joke for at least the next ten minutes.” Gary said sincerely. That was probably a lie; he couldn’t help himself when a good play-on-words happened. But if it was important to her, he’d do his best to skip the softball bits.

“I miss my library.” she said quietly, still chipping leftover polish away. It was a thought that had been on her mind for a very long time; there were even times she _dreamed_ of it. The old, block building and its ‘old building’ smell, the forever-burnt coffee in the break room, the hum of the overhead lights and desktops in the computer bay...the way the building was always almost too warm, no matter the season. Celeste was not typically a Kindred who dreamed, so when these dreams _did_ happen, they made her ache even more for what was lost.

Gary opened his mouth, not to tease, but to deliver some variation of the ‘leave it behind, that’s your old life’ speech that older Kindred had memorized for the younger. He just had to make it sound less cold than it usually did; it wasn’t like she didn’t already know it.

“Not--not like _that_.” Celeste amended quickly, before he could start. “Not _my_ library as in my old life, I mean my library as in…as in what a library is _supposed_ to be. I miss the regulars who’ve read everything in a section but they keep coming back to check out and recheck out their favorites, like they’re picking up old friends. I miss the old folks’ reading clubs, and their heated debates that almost always end up with some old coot yelling ‘well let’s go to the parking lot and settle up!’, and the old ladies who have read _every single Danielle Steele_ ever printed and will happily tell you which are the best and naughtiest.” she smiled a little. “I miss the kids who don’t know how to find books by their reference numbers and are _so_ shy when they come to the desk for help. I miss the people who come in to use the computers and the fax machine and all they want is a new job or a better job or just a fresh chance; the people who come in out of the rain and wind up staying an extra few minutes to browse…I miss the _life_ of a library! The people and the activity, the _promise_ that’s on every shelf and in every reference if you’re just ready to look for it…”

As she continued on her spiel, the flush on her chest and in her ears pooled in two bright pink spots on her cheeks. There was a gleam in her eyes, and she even started to gesture; nothing overly emphatic, but for a woman who generally kept her hands neatly tucked into her arms and resisted most impulses, it was wild. Gary lay there, letting the spiel wash over him, moved to more sympathy than he’d ever admit to being capable of. When he’d been among the living, he hadn’t thought that hard about libraries, and as a Nosferatu, well…there was a reason he kept sending Vinny and a couple of the others to raid the night drop-off bin.

“...what I’m doing now, it’s not what I _want_ to be doing.” Celeste finished.

“I’ll admit, it’s not as lively as what you’re used to…” Gary said cautiously. “But…well…is it that bad, princess?”

“It’s not a library, Gary. It’s not a place you go to learn, or explore. It’s _at the absolute best_ , a trash pit. It’s not an archive, because no one gives a fuck what’s down there, and there is _no_ support to it. The little bit that I’ve managed to sort and organize is…it’s crap. Copies of copies of copies that are illegible and I _think_ someone’s typewriter-sourced vampire erotic fiction. That’s it.” she said heatedly.

Gary snorted, wiping his nose before continuing. “Sorry; if it mentions Dracula, I’m pretty sure I know who wrote it.” he explained, before sitting up properly. “So why not use your witchy magic to make something better of it?” The gentle tease was out of his mouth before he could think better of it; they rarely remarked on each others’ Clans, for the sake of keeping politics and bad opinions out of the scenes, after all.

Celeste stiffened. She could see Gary opening his mouth, probably to apologize, but she cut him off before he could get a word out. “I don’t have any. I don’t know _anything_ that I probably should.”

Gary blinked, taken aback at the outburst. Then he noticed something; an odd twitch in Celeste’s cheek, and the way her eyes darted away from him. It reminded him a little of the Malkavian--Mitnick’s girlfriend--when she was struggling to say something that would turn out to be vaguely prophetic. He frowned.

“I can’t--I c-c-can’t s-s-say.” Celeste stumbled over the words, making a frustrated noise in her throat and punching the bed. She stared at the peeling paint below the ragged hem of the curtains on the window.

“Then don’t.” Gary said slowly, again surprised. He drew a finger across her cheek, tucking some stray hair behind her ear. “Hey. _Hey_ , listen to me princess: you know I don’t grudge you being secretive. That’s my stock and trade, after all.” he said cautiously.

Celeste shook her head, and forced a deep breath through her nose. She had to tread carefully here, had to figure out just the right things to say. “Do…do you know what a _g_ _é_ _as_ is?” she asked.

He raised an eyebrow. “Can’t say I do, princess. Unless you mean to describe the good times we’re having.”

Celeste snorted, shaking her head. She took another deep breath, and lifted her head to look at him. “It’s…a compulsion. A magical compulsion. When it’s paired with a Blood Bond, it…” she licked her lips. “It gives a lot of control to someone, over someone else.”

“You’re being _awfully_ vague--” Gary trailed off. The nerve in her cheek was jumping again, and the look she gave him was full of desperation. “--because you have to be.” he finished, something like an idea dawning.

She swallowed, and nodded. “There are things that I would tell you…they’re not even…they’re not _clan secrets_. But I literally cannot make the words come out.”

“Because of the…magic thing.” Gary said, forgoing even trying to remember how she pronounced the word. It didn’t matter in the long run; she would have his point.

Celeste nodded again. “I’m…finding some ways around. But it’s…hard. I hate it. I…” she trailed off. “If…” she bit her lip. “I’m going to ask you something very dumb, and I need you to continue not teasing me.”

Gary leaned forward and kissed her shoulder. “I’m on my best behavior.” He said seriously.

“What…what are we doing?” Celeste asked. “I mean…what is _this_?” she gestured between them.

He hadn’t been expecting to have _this_ conversation tonight…or honestly, any night. Not that he hadn’t thought about it; but one of the things about dating-while-Nos was that you avoided _this_ conversation for as long as possible, to stave off disappointment. “A good time.” Gary started, in full honesty. “I uh…I’m not sure what kind of _name_ I’d put on it. You know, it’s complicated, seeing as how…well, you’re you, and I’m me, and we are who and what we are. You get me?”

“A little…just…I guess…I need to know if I can say something outrageous, and have it stay just between us.”

Gary took hold of her chin gently, thumb brushing across her lower lip. “Princess, not one word of our pillow talk has _ever_ left the pillows. Alright?” he said firmly. “Unless you’re gonna say something _real_ bad outrageous, it doesn’t leave these pillows.”

Celeste took a deep breath. “I’m…not happy. In the Chantry. I’m not happy, and I want to leave.” she said, voice flattening out towards the end. The words made the corners of her mouth itch, and her tongue feel numb and sluggish.

 _That_ was not what Gary was expecting to hear, if he was going to be totally honest. Not many Tremere left their little magic holes; whether it was out of obedience, necessity, or loyalty, he hadn’t bothered guessing about it. There were, after all, not too many wizards running around the Anarch state at any given time. “So…why don’t you?” he asked slowly, frowning slightly as she pulled away from his grip.

Celeste focused on the ugly wall again. “I’m afraid.” she said quietly. “It’s like…it’s like leaving a bad boyfriend. I don’t…I don’t know if I can, and survive.” she said frankly.

Gary pursed his lips. He didn’t have any advice to give; if someone wanted to leave the Warrens, they could. If they wanted to go bat for Nines’ crew…as long as it didn’t put the Warrens in danger, they could (he didn’t believe in trying to muzzle, choke, or otherwise imprison those around him; that kind of crap didn’t build loyalty, after all). “Come here, princess. Come here to me.” Gary said softly, reaching out to her. She didn’t resist too hard as he pulled her into his arms. “We got until we gotta go. How about some nice, quiet, thinking time? Just you, me, the pillows.” He offered, wiggling with her until they were spooning in relative comfort. “I’ll even pretend to be a gentleman.” Gary added.

She snorted. “I give you about five minutes, the way you’re already pressing against my ass.”

“Five minutes? Princess, don’t underestimate me because I’m _older_.” he teased, figuring that if it had nothing to do with what had been said in confidence earlier, he could dip back into their normal conversation patterns.

Celeste shook her head, hugging his arms where they wrapped around her. “Slowly, this time. If there is a this time.”

The request was soft, and rang with a timid note. Gary kissed the curve of her ear, running his thumb along her stomach where his hand rested. “Sure, princess. I like that just as much as you do.”

It was rare that they moved slowly together, that it didn’t devolve into frantic, desperate fucking. What that said about either of them, Gary didn’t know. All he really knew, as he ground his princess into the mattress and reveled in the throaty groans and shrill whines his deliberate thrusts forced out of her, was that whatever it was they had going on? _He liked it._ He liked it too much.

Celeste reveled in the slow, painful-in-a-different-way kind of fuck. By now, Gary knew where to stroke and rub to set her nerves on fire, and he did it with a tender malice that did _things_ to her. His grip on her wrists was tight enough to make the tips of her fingers tingle, and it was a good thing she didn’t really need to breathe; when Gary came, he settled on top of her with his full weight. The bedding and mattress muffled any comment, which was probably for the best; he didn’t need to know his charming bulk was as soothing as it was. Like a weighted blanket that still smelled of expensive cologne; she was glad he’d started making a habit of paying for more time. Nights like this, she _needed_ more time…and hopefully, he did too.


	2. Penitence

Celeste’s hair was still wet from the motel shower when she let herself into the Chantry shortly before dawn. The soft, satisfied smile on her face died as the entryway lights flared bright and accusatory, revealing Strauss in his _incredibly displeased_ stance.

“I went to the archives tonight,” Strauss said, voice colder and more clipped than usual, “expecting to see my Childe doing her duties as befits a member of this Chantry.” he continued as the entryway lights flared even brighter. “Where. Were. _You_.”

The words landed on her ears like heavy blows, thrumming with the threat of their Bond and the other latent commands Strauss had woven into their so-called relationship; there would be no outwitting him with outright lies. “I left early, for a date. A romantic date.” Celeste said; it was the briefest honesty she could give, though the phrase surprised her. Maybe, on a better night, when she hadn’t unloaded as much emotionally, she and Gary could have another talk about what _exactly_ was between them.

Strauss’ icy face broken into a ferocious snarl, and he crossed the entryway in a blink to get a hand on his wayward subject’s throat. “I _know_ where you have been and I _know_ with whom you dally. You make a mockery of me, of this Chantry, of our _clan_ with your indiscreet behaviors.” This close to her, he could smell the leaden water and cheap soap of the Luckee Star’s showers. _That_ was why he would rather command Velour to the Chantry than go as far as Hollywood for some light satisfaction. Strauss grabbed her face with his free hand, nails digging into her cheeks.

The sting of his nails paled in comparison to the very possible reality that after he pulled her jaw off, he would take the rest of her head off. Celeste held still, looking just below his glasses in a desperate attempt to preserve a smidgen of independent will.

“ _Look. At. Me.”_ Strauss hissed.

There went that plan. Celeste locked eyes with the furious Elder; now the only act of defiance she could maintain was the refusal to cry. She wasn’t Circe; she didn’t go watery eyed without _a lot_ more duress…the clan-shaming practice with Gary had just paid itself off.

“You will _not_ see him again. You will notify him of this. Then, you will spend the next three days and nights in penitent meditation. If you fall into torpor at any time, your penance will be negated and you will have to try again. You will not be permitted to feed until _I_ say so.”

Strauss was close enough for her to smell both his cologne and the traces of blood still coating the back of his throat. It was threatening the same way her real sire had been. Celeste held still, eyes unblinking even as his nails dug in a little deeper.

“Am I understood?”

“Yes.” Celeste managed to force out in the small space Strauss’ grip allowed.

“Yes, _what?_ ” Strauss hissed, pressing his advantage more. If this one broke under such duress, then what tissue was left would be put to better use in the labs.

Only sheer will kept Celeste from dribbling vitae into Strauss’ grip as the word bubbled up along with bile. It wouldn’t do to give up what she still had with a long penitence ahead. “Yes…master.”

Barely mollified, Strauss let go of the girl and stepped back. “Go.” he snapped.

Celeste forced herself to make the trudge upstairs in a calm and reasonable fashion. Running would just taunt Strauss’ Beast and feed his ego. What little will she had to call her own while in the Chantry would _not_ allow that.

Strauss watched the relatively dignified retreat, mulling his next options. The neonate was stubborn, and while he doubted the embrace of a _sewer rat_ would outweigh the stress of the penitence he set, it was obvious the girl could be swayed by dissatisfaction. If he could not renew the vigor of their Bond, he _might_ actually have to let her see one of the lighter tomes this Chantry held. That was the problem with American vampires; they were too impatient. He couldn’t imagine such defiance at her meager age!

***

Inside her room, Celeste’s knees gave out and she did finally shed a tear. The message she sent to Gary’s contact was miserably short: ****I can’t see you anymore****

Strauss had told her that, had nearly burned it into her brain. However, he _hadn’t_ said she couldn’t make one more contact before starting her penitence. It was grasping at straws, and a weak defense, but the wordplay was all Celeste had to go on for the moment. She brought up Circe’s number. ****Strauss knows. He’s furious. 3 days-nights penitence. Starting now. If Gary asks, tell him it’s not him or me****

She set the phone on her dresser as she drew the necessary runes on the floor in front of the bed. Before Celeste drew the last sigil and readied to step into the ring, she checked her phone. There was a ****< 3 ****from Circe; it would have to do. She would have to trust that the Malkavian really did stand her friend, _and_ that she understood the message. Celeste locked her phone and set it aside, then completed the setup for her ordered penitence.

The hardwood floor was already biting her ass as she sat cross-legged within the binding ring. Celeste forced another deep breath; the position would be difficult, and the sleep-deprivation relatively severe. The hunger would be a factor, but what she was banking on (and what Strauss had hopefully underestimated) was how well-practiced she was at skipping meals. Not _deliberately_ of course; it was just that sometimes research went overlong and food came second to finishing a train of thought!

Celeste stared at the dresser in front of her, without seeing it. Strauss no doubt planned for her to meditate on the _wrongs_ of abandoning an ordered duty, of shirking knowledge for carnal pleasure, for ‘embarrassing the Clan’ (which was, quite frankly, a load of horse shit for someone who had an established affair with a non-Tremere: a Toreador, as a matter of fact!)…but to survive three days and nights alone, awake, and hungry, Celeste would focus her mind on something else. On things that had happened that led her to be in this penitent ring in the first place; _they_ were the things that needed to be considered at length.


	3. Penitence: Yearning

** **Shortly After the Camarilla Pretend to Settle in LA:** **

****Enter “the Malkavian”** **

The door to the proposed archive was heavy, metal, and rusting around the handle. That was _not_ a good sign; while Celeste managed to get it open without breaking it, the moldering chaos that waited on the other side made her want to slam it shut and go home. “You’ve _got_ to be fucking kidding me.” she muttered under her breath, stepping in and looking around. There were a few shelves, some of which had broken levels, and cardboard boxes and papers everywhere; for some odd reason, there was a collection of questionably stained toilets in the corner, and broken furniture jammed here, there, and everywhere. “You have _got_ to be fucking kidding me!” she repeated as she moved deeper into the room; there was something scrabbling behind the boxes, no doubt a huge and hideous rat who’d grown fat on the garbage piles all over the ugly, squat room. There wasn’t even a chair for her to sit in and cry! “I’m so fucked…” Celeste breathed, wrinkling her nose at the acrid _taste_ of the air around the mess. She didn’t know what she’d done to piss Strauss off for him to volunteer her for this, or what he thought the Camarilla would reward him with for her labor; all she knew was that _this was a goddamn nightmare!_

“Knock, knock, Madame Librarian!”

Celeste groaned. On top of _everything else_ , now the Malkavian was here! Lacroix’s personal assistant (some speculated lover too, but Celeste had her doubts), no doubt coming to rub salt in the wound. So far, the Camarilla types she’d come into contact with were as petty as the rest of her Clanmates in the Chantry--that is to say: _incredibly petty!_ She turned around to greet the redhead. “What do you want?” she’d honestly meant to say something more along the lines of ‘can I help you’ but the weight of reality had squashed most of her decorum.

The Malkavian smiled, and held up a yellow vase full of sunflowers. “Like Santa, I come bearing gifts and good intentions! How finds you this noxious night in the city of smoggy dreams?”

She wasn’t entirely sure what the Malk meant. “Oh I’m just _peachy_. Queen of the night, that’s me. Welcome to my kingdom, can I offer you a nice rat?” Celeste groused.

“No thanks, not hungry.” The Malkavian replied, unphased by the sarcasm that had just been flung her way. “The Prince bids you work fast and efficient, a parrot for the Camarilla’s statements, but you are indeed Queen here; queen and expert, and if any need to be reminded, I can be your megaphone.”

Celeste blinked, then rubbed her temples. “I have _no_ idea what the fuck you’re saying, and I’m too overwhelmed to guess. Do you have a translator or a guide I can use?”

The Malkavian sighed and set the bouquet on a nearby stack of boxes. Then she reached into her suit jacket and pulled out a little notebook and pen. After she finished scribbling, she pressed two sheets into Celeste’s hand. ****My name is Circe, and I know I’m hard to understand. I**** ** **L I T E R A L L Y**** ** **cannot**** ** **help it**** ** **, and would really appreciate if you didn’t chew my ass out for it. I can see this place is a shit show, I’m not blind. I came to tell you what I was told to tell you, but also to point out you’re pretty much in charge of how you want to tackle this. I’d like for us to be friends, because we’re both at the bottom of the ladder and it sucks and is lonely without friends. I also brought you flowers because it’s fucking dark and they’re cheerful. Ok? Ok****

To her credit, Celeste was well-shamed by the blocky note. “I--” she sighed. “You’re right. I’m sorry, I…am taking stuff out on you that I would _really_ like to take out on someone else.” Mainly Strauss, and somewhat Lacroix. And whoever had been in charge of this space before her. But that was it. “The flowers are lovely, thank you.” She added, then watched the Malkavian scribble, accepting it meekly.

****They’re fake. Easier to take care of that way :)** **

“You’re not wrong.” Celeste snorted. “Any uh…any advice on dealing with this? I mean I’ve worked some underfunded and understaffed libraries in my life, but this is _fucking_ ridiculous.”

The Malkavian shrugged, then scribbled. ****Don’t ask me, I was a massage therapist before. Still am now, lol. I have to go back to the Tower, but if I’m free tomorrow night, would you want me to come and help you?****

Celeste blinked, rereading the note before answering. “I uh…I mean yes, but really, what are you going to get out of it? Besides possibly tetanus.” she joked.

The Malkavian--Circe--smiled. ****I think we could be friends. I think it’s important**** ** **we**** ** **be friends. Might be just the Malk scramble acting up, but usually when an idea gets stuck in my brain like this, it’s better for me to follow it out. Make sense?****

“Not quite…do you mind if I ask what a ‘Malk scramble’ is?” Celeste said slowly. She’d never actually met a Malkavian to converse with like this; all she knew was that sometimes they were _Seers_ and all of them were some form of deranged. At least, that’s what she’d been told.

Circe shrugged, and gestured vaguely to herself before writing out the answer. ****Sometimes it’s called ‘the Network’. I don’t really get it; my sire got got like ten years after biting me so I’m just flying by the seat of my panties.****

Celeste snorted. “Some nights, I think we all are…respectively.” she sighed. “I’m sorry about your sire.” she said; it was usually the proper response, whether the Sire was worth it or not.

“A wicked Sire: a liar, a heart-breaker, a deceiver.” Circe replied, pursing her lips. “While not best manners to speak against unsaintly-sainthood granted by the Final Death, I will not shore up a sham in discrete conversation.” she said in a firm tone.

The Malkavians were purported to have a greater _insight_ into the world around them, which was why there had been more than a few purges against their members; Kindred typically didn’t like others knowing their business. Celeste was _relatively_ confident the Malkavian hadn’t just cherry-picked apart her past and commented on it…but she was also feeling _quite_ exposed. “I won’t say anything if you won’t.” Celeste finally settled on saying.

Circe smiled, and nodded. “Good night, Queen of Books, Bookkeeper of Queens.” She scribbled one last note and passed it to Celeste before leaving.

Celeste checked the scribble. It was her number, a heart, and an invitation to call. She folded it up and put it in her pocket. The more conversational notes she tore up and dropped into a moldy box. It felt rude, but it seemed better to not have a written record of half their conversation. Then Celeste turned back to the disaster of an “archive”. It was probably a losing battle, but it was one she’d been ordered fight.

***

Some nights after that first, strange encounter, Celeste received a text from the Malkavian--Circe--while she was struggling to shovel garbage out of the squat room.

****Let’s get a drink!** **

She didn’t remember giving the Malkavian--Circe--her number. Celeste had added it to her phone, but hadn’t reached out. ****How do you have this number?****

****Easy-peasy lemon squeezy! Lacroix has it from your sire so I have it** **

Celeste frowned. ****Don’t go taking random numbers****

****It’s NOT random, it’s you. Come on, let’s get a drink** **

Celeste shook her head, sitting down on a folding chair she’d scrounged up. The concrete floor of the ugly room was hell on her feet as much as the whole room was hell on her mood. ****I’m not even close to done cleaning out this place, I can’t****

****GORL. U R LITERALLY not going to die if you don’t get it done in a week. Take break, come out with me!!! Confessions is a banger, let’s GO** **

While the Malkvian-- _Circe_ \--had made a pretty good, Masquerade-skirting point, Celeste still intended to decline. ****The club that used to be a church? Not really my kind of place****

****Adventure keeps your soul young. Plus, less chance of rat bites!** **

Celeste squinted at the phone. She was about ready to quail in the face of purported Malkavian insight when common sense kicked in: there were rats all over the damn place, and she was up to her elbows in garbage. There was as much a chance of getting nipped as there wasn’t, and while Circe might’ve been ‘scrambled’, she was probably smart enough to make that guess. ****You’re not wrong, but still no****

****I really thought you’d say yes, because I’m outside with no pants on** **

Celeste got up and pulled the door open. Some WD-40 had helped its motion, but it was still an ugly, clunky thing. “Adorable.” She said drily; the Malkavian was wearing a tutu and neon-glow rings up her arms, along with a shirt that said ‘BITE ME’. “I don’t even know what I was expecting.” Celeste added, shaking her head.

Circe grinned. “No pants, see? No lies.” she twirled, ending in a little hop. “Let’s dance. The night is young and so are we! Sort of…come and have fun, before you wither hither thither and yon into melty cardboard goop.” she said insistently.

“Why not the Asylum? I thought that would be more your place.” Celeste replied. She didn’t realize how rude it sounded until the Malkavian fixed her with a glare. “Fuck--because the sisters are Malkavians, that’s what I meant, I swear.”

“The Daughters of Janus, while kin, bring little in the way of comfort to one unaccustomed to their Embrace. Also battle of wills between the Queen of Books and the Dark daughter would ensue, _or_ you would cause great offense declining a bedding by the White daughter.” Circe replied. “And this is no fortunate fortune, merely foreknowledge netted from experience.”

Celeste frowned. “I don’t know if I’m being insulted or not, but I _kind of feel like I am_.”

Circe shook her head. “No insult meant; I cast no slight against your desires, or what guides you to a bed! What hypocrite would I be to do such a thing as that?” she asked. “But I guess quite rightly that a come-on such as the White Daughter’s offers of strap and leather and power tools would miss its mark with you. Tell me I’m wrong, and to the Asylum we will wander.”

“...power tools? Ok, _that’s a little scary_.” Celeste said.

Circe shrugged. “But true. So to Confessions, where the Love Goddess has started holding court, and no one pays notice to the fashions of our mouths even as we kiss.” she grabbed Celeste’s hands, eyes gleaming. “Come. Come, come, come, _come_!” she insisted.

Celeste looked back at the room, still half full of garbage on the ground and the shelves in disarray. The sunflowers sat on the tank of one of the toilets, determinedly perky and generally un-nibbled by rats. Then she looked back at the Malkavian, who fairly vibrated and had purple hair--did dye work the same for Kindred, or did the Malkavian know some other trick? “If I go with you tonight, you’re in here tomorrow helping me.” she said at last. “I mean around whatever Lacroix plans for you.” Celeste tempered, aware that they both served rather inconsiderate bosses.

“Deal!” Circe beamed. “Now _here!”_

Celeste found her arms festooned with glowing bracelets before she could pull away or protest. “That…was fast.”

“I try. No pinches?” Circe looked up at her hopefully.

“No, no pinches.” Celeste reassured her. The Malkavian’s chipper mood was a little contagious, she was discovering. “Let’s go, before I change my mind.” she said, rolling her eyes.

Circe made a shrill, happy noise and tightened her grip on Celeste’s hands; obviously intent on _actually_ dragging her to the club.

***

** **Tensions Continue but the Camarilla Makes 0 Headway in Claiming California** **

****Meanwhile, Circe Continues to Push Celeste Outside Her Comfort Zones** **

Maneuvering a wheelbarrow of Amazon packages down the rocky, ill-maintained paths of the Hollywood cemetery was _not_ how Celeste had expected to spend the night…although in all honesty, whenever Circe managed to pull her away from the miserable slog of the non-Archive, the night always turned into some kind of adventure. However, spending a good chunk of the night idling at the one post office that had hours past 5pm watching Circe flirt like a dancer at Vesuvius was _not_ the best adventure they’d have. Following it up with a twisty, curvy downhill walk did not improve things.

“What in the _hell_ are they ordering in bulk like this?” Celeste grunted as she fought the creaking wheelbarrow’s inclination to aim for the edge of the path and tip over onto the graves below.

Circe didn’t answer at first, distracted by the phone in her hand. Then she made a happy noise. “Steady on, starry-eyed learner! Fortune smiles on us, our harbor master is the Love to my Lace!” she declared, picking up the pace, the garbage bag of various enveloped packages bouncing against her back.

Celeste frowned and shook her head. Every night she thought _maybe_ she had an idea of what Circe was saying, something would happen and that idea was pretty much entirely scrapped. She watched the Malkavian fairly skip down the rest of the way, and a shadow emerge from behind a guitar-shaped monument. Celeste’s frown deepened as the Malkavian dropped her bag and ran at the figure, and threw herself at them, arms and legs wrapping around like a lusty homecoming greeting. She made her way the rest of the way down to find Circe peppering the face of a lanky, slightly hunched Nosferatu whose ears jingled with rings. “Uh…”

Circe’s feet touched the ground, but her arms remained around the Nosferatu. “Harbor master and general domo, deliverer of our deliveries, our point of reference for reference points unknown--such a gleeful meeting of my favorite minds I am glad to make!” she crowed.

The Nosferatu laughed. “Easy, babe--Mitnick.” He said by way of introduction.

“Celeste…” Celeste said slowly. Something in the night air was _off_ \--and not the slow and steady growing dread and malaise that was rolling over California (if she were more superstitious, she’d say it was the metaphorical winds that had blown the Camarilla westward). This was like the crackle in the air before a lightening strike.

“What makes the night glow that finds my technical adoration here to meet us--” Circe’s voice trailed off, and she stiffened, blinking rapidly.

“Circe? _Circe_.” Celeste snapped; did the Malkavian have seizures? Did _vampires_ in general have seizures? She didn’t know, and that seemed like something _she should, dammit!_

“Babe? _Babe_?” the Nosferatu said, much more gently. He placed his large hands on either side of the Malkavian’s face. “Focus on _me,_ babe. Come on, can you see me? Just look at me, babe.”

Circe nodded slowly, still blinking rapidly. Her hands dropped limply to her sides.

Celeste frowned; maybe it was a trick of the lights, but it almost seemed like Circe’s eyes changed color with every blink. But _that_ was preposterous…wasn’t it?

“That’s it, that’s my girl.” The Nosferatu said warmly. “Just look at me, ok? Right here, look at me.” he smiled.

The tenderness in the Nosferatu’s voice didn’t _quite_ turn Celeste’s stomach--rather, the feeling that it caused, deep in her core, was something unbearable and hard-to-name. “What’s wrong?” She asked quietly.

The Nosferatu didn’t answer until the girl in his hands sighed, then leaned on him. His arms went around her in a protective embrace. “It’s ok babe--what happened tonight?” he asked, addressing Celeste, expression hard.

“What do you mean, ‘what happened tonight’?” Celeste replied. “We went to the post office, we got your mail, we brought it here.”

The Nosferatu--Mitnick--shook his head. “I mean _what happened_? Were there a lot of people around or something, what?”

Here, Celeste hesitated. The clerk behind the counter had been a real jerk, fully ready to deny the pickup because neither of them was actually ‘Frederick H. Wood’…but then Circe did the thing that made feeding with her _so easy_ : she turned on the charm. Practically stripped down and crawled over the desk, firing up the jerk up until he got cooperative. But _did_ she want to say all that to this stranger, who was…well, who was _obviously_ in some kind of relationship with the Malkavian?

Mitnick pursed his lips, pulling back from Circe a little. “Hey, _hey_ cutie. Long night, huh? Had to spend a lot of time pretending?” he asked gently.

She nodded, dragging a hand across her eyes. “ _Fuck_. Sorry.” Circe whispered.

Celeste cocked her head, watching the Nosferatu fold her friend back into a protective embrace.

“Come on, please. What happened?” he repeated.

“The guy at the counter was a jerk. Circe pretty much flirted her pants off at him.” Celeste replied curtly. “Is that ‘pretending’?” she asked. “I mean she does it all the time.”

The Nosferatu rolled his eyes. “Did you listen? I mean, do you listen when she does that?”

“I try not to.” Celeste said frankly. “It gets a little _blue_ , you know?”

He snorted. “But you _have_ listened to a little bit, right? Like you’re supposed to be smart, you _have_ noticed that when she does it, she’s not…so scrambled? Please tell me your head isn’t _that_ far up your ass.”

Celeste opened her mouth to protest, but Circe interrupted. “Please? Nice.” the Malkavian whispered before latching onto him in a desperate embrace again.

“Ok, ok. We’re being nice, I promise.” the Nosferatu soothed. “Hey, _hey_ …I got an idea, you’re gonna love it. The witch there, she’s gonna help you get home, and I’m gonna take these packages in, _and then I’m coming up to see you_. We’ll do the bubble bath thing, watch some more Bake-Off, yeah?” he said, sounding all the world like a parent bribing a kid into good behavior.

“I don’t have to help her--” Celeste started to protest. They had ridden in the cab together, and the driver knew where to go. And Circe _was_ an adult.

“No, you’re going to.” Mitnick replied sharply. “Because when she gets bad like this, _she’ll wander_. She’s almost crossed the state line a couple of times, in different directions, because she got…this way.” he added.

Circe raised her head again. “Old summons demand attendance, though the hosts are _long_ , long, long, long, long, long--”

Mitnick snapped his fingers in front of her face. “Babe? Babe, come back.”

Circe shook her head. “Fuck…sorry.” she repeated.

“It’s ok. _It’s ok babe_. Chell here is gonna help you get home, and sit with you until I get there, you’ll be _fine_.” he said softly, guiding the Malkavian into Celeste’s arms.

“Celeste, _please_.” The Tremere winced, convulsively grabbing for Circe. She was equal parts slack and tense, like a student who’d pulled too many all-nighters in a row and still had to present their findings. “We’ll just…uh… _actually…_ ” Celeste bent and twisted until she had Circe relatively secure in a bridal carry; it wouldn’t be an _easy_ trip up the hill, but it would be faster than trying to coax the miserable Malkavian into a steady walk.

“Alright, Celeste. Just…this won’t take long.” Mitnick replied. “I’ll meet you guys up at Circe’s place, then your night’s yours. Just…keep an eye on her, _ok_?” he pleaded.

Celeste nodded. “Uh…good luck with the wheelbarrow. It’s janky as hell.” she said, before turning away to climb up the hill and back to the cab. It occurred to her, as she huffed and struggled and tried not to drop her friend, that it had been a very long time since she’d had this much extended platonic contact with someone. Was it a vampire thing, to forgo most contact unless it was about fighting, fucking, or feeding? Maybe that was why the sense of humanity was always under threat.

As the cab and its inscrutable driver rolled out of Hollywood, Celeste’s mind wandered back to the graveyard. Circe had hinted at a regular, steady romance before (although _for once_ she hadn’t bubbled over with details like a shaken can of soda); but Celeste had written it off as something…well, ‘fly-by-night’. After all, vampires weren’t _human_ anymore; they lived for blood and power, battled the inner _Beast_. Pretending otherwise was foolish and would most likely end in a final death. It had only been fifteen years since she’d been Turned; fifteen somewhat lonely years as Strauss’ retainer, in a Chantry that was as vicious as an internship with only one post-opportunity job available. Being vulnerable--as vulnerable as the Malkavian was in that instant--in front of _anyone_ was a good way to get thrown under the bus and further locked out of teachings.

That, Celeste nearly decided as she cradled the weepy and exhausted Malkavian, could not be the only way for a vampire to live: spiteful and colder than their own skin. The feeling that had coiled sharp and mean in her core as she hovered on the fringes of those intimate moments in the graveyard still did not warrant a name. But it was there, and it was strong.


	4. Penitence: Desire

** **The Plague Has Been Eradicated** **

****The Rats in the Archives? Not So Much** **

****

When Celeste arrived at the archive and found a brown-haired woman trying the door and a squat delivery van in the alleyway, she groaned. “No! No, no, turn around and take whatever you brought with you--I already told the guy in the leisure suit.” She said firmly, jogging the last few steps to put a hand on the door and keep the woman out. “This is not a dump site for takeout receipts and broken fixtures _anymore_.”

“Uh…I’m not--I have a furniture delivery.” The woman replied slowly. “For uh…” she pulled a notebook out of the pocket of her flannel shirt. “Yeah, ‘the librarian with the sour mood and great legs’.” She read off. “Are you the librarian?”

“I--” Celeste made a frustrated noise. “Yes, I’m the librarian. I take issue with the rest.”

“Well, you can yell at Gary when you see him again, that’s above my pay-grade.” The woman replied genially. “Name’s Eloise, by the way.” she said as she pulled a business card out and offered it.

Celeste took it, scanning it quickly. The almost imperceptible stamp of Camarilla approval in the upper left corner surprised her. “You’re…you make furniture _to spec_.” She said slowly and cautiously.

“That’s right. Flynn’s my sponsor; dunno if you met him yet.” The woman smiled. “Probably will at some point, if you find any practical documentation. He’s always looking for old architectural plans for craft stuff. Découpage tabletops and that kind of thing.” She explained.

“Ah…well…so far, no such thing has come up.” Celeste replied. “So you’re _not_ bringing more garbage?”

“Nope! You open that door, give me a hand, I can have this delivery done and be out of your hair in minutes.” the woman said. She ambled back towards the truck and opened the back, then pulled one of the protective covers off the large piece.

It was a desk, dark and solid looking; it was _gorgeous_. “You’re kidding.” Celeste said in surprise, moving closer to the truck.

“That’s why I was trying the door; was trying to get a sense of how much space we had to work with.” Eloise said.

“We’ll have to use the loading bay. It’s not very wide once you get past the door, but there’s _no way_ we’d got this in there without taking it apart.” Celeste replied.

“Oh--shoot, if I’d known that, I’d’ve pulled further up. I thought that was for the place next door.” The woman shrugged. “Sorry.”

“So did I, for like the first four nights I was cleaning in here, this building’s layout makes no sense.” Celeste reassured her. “I’ll unlock the doors, and we’ll get this inside.” There was probably a catch in accepting the furniture, but Celeste was well and tired of hunching over a folding table trying to get the place in order; and if Eloise was something like the Masquerade’s carpenter, maybe she’d have good ideas for shelving.

After the two wrestled the desk inside and set it in place, Celeste broached the subject of shelving. The ghoul--who was cheerful and happy to chat--eagerly started taking notes. It was _nice_ , making plans with someone who wasn’t so married to some _notion_ of what an archive could be that they ignored the very real limitations the space offered. After assuring Celeste she would get paid _somehow_ for what work she provided for the archive, the ghoul left.

Celeste ran her hands over the top of the desk lightly. It was _gorgeous_ ; dark and rich, with drawers that slid whisper-quiet into place, and it sat sturdy as a fortress at the back of the room. Once she had a chair for it, and time to sit, it’d be even more impressive to walk towards. The gaudy mirror behind it, on the other hand…the Tremere shook her head and rolled her eyes. _‘To help you keep an eye on things, if you care to look’_ indeed! Frankly, it looked like it would be more at home in Lacroix’s office instead of a squat room with cinder block walls. Then she felt a finger run up her back, and a strong flick along the bottom of her hair.

She startled, bumping the new desk, eyes going to the mirror and finding nothing. “Damn it, Golden, knock that shit off!” Celeste yelled, turning around to see if she could get a _hint_ of where the Nosferatu was. “I can smell your cologne, you know!” she added. That meant he had to be _close_.

He was, in fact, close. _A lot closer_ than she’d been expecting, when the Nosferatu came into view mere inches away. He had his long-fingered hands on either side of her, resting casually on the new desk and again illustrating the breadth of his _incredibly_ broad chest. “Well, I thought I’d get dolled up for you. Like the new stuff?”

Celeste leaned back as far as she could manage. At least neither of them had much body temp to speak of, or else the closeness of the Primogen would be something unbearable. “Very funny, now what’s the catch?” She demanded. This close, she could see the more sculptural qualities of his face; the sharp lines of his lips and fangs, and the fact he didn’t seem to have much in the way of eyelashes. He was _really_ too close, for her to notice that. “You need to--need to back up.” Celeste added faintly. The _hungry_ look was all over his face again, and she didn’t know why it was currently being directed at her; that kind of insincerity was a real turn off.

“Tell you what, sweetheart: when I’m doing something you _really_ don’t like, all you have to say is ‘lemon fizz’.” He smirked, the words rumbling in the minuscule space between them.

Celeste raised an eyebrow.

“I used to like those, back when I could.” The Nosferatu said genially.

Was he even _closer_? Had he leaned in? It seemed like he’d leaned in another little bit. “Lemon fizz! And get out, I’m still trying to work here.” Celeste snapped.

The Nosferatu straightened, taking a few steps back from her with his hands up in a lazy nearly-surrender. Then he turned around, and started heading for the door.

Celeste blinked. “…you’re actually leaving?” the words slipped out, driven by a telling amazement.

Gary paused at the door, hand on the handle. He looked back at her, with something like pity on his face. “I don’t know what you’re used to, sweetheart, but when those are the rules: _those are the rules_.” he winked, then disappeared from sight.

Celeste forced herself to take a breath, trying to ignore the ghost of salt and sandalwood and something else that was still in the air. There was work to be done, _a lot of it_ ; she decided to throw herself into it for the night, to ignore the very peculiar feelings roiling around deep down. It was _probably_ just the Primogen playing some weird Kindred joke; an expensive one, judging from the quality of Eloise’s work and the crispness of her reflection in the mirror, but a joke nonetheless. That was it. And it certainly _wasn’t_ amusing, and wasn’t affecting her with anything but absolute irritation.

At least, that’s what she told herself for the night.

***

** **In Local News, Golden Age Jewelry Was Looted During the Blackout** **

****The Archive Remains a Relative Disaster, However It’s Much Cleaner now** **

****

The chair Circe had fairly bullied her into getting _was_ better than a stool, Celeste had to admit. It was leather and had a pretty decent back support (which was why the Malkavian had been so insistent--she kind of had a thing about that). It made the long hours compiling and organizing papers a more comfortable experience. She still doubted that piles of old real estate deals and Chuck Tingle-esque “first hand accounts” with other denizens of the night ( _if_ Bigfoot was real, she doubt he’d be giving blowies behind a defunct Texaco in Pasadena), but after months of asking for a handful of directions besides “clean it up and make it functional”, Celeste now had a list of categories to keep and further organize. She slid another sheet into a plastic sleeve, and the sleeve into the binder on the desk. With three binders now full of mundane history, it was time to stretch her legs.

Celeste pushed away from the desk and gathered the binders to her chest, then headed towards the shelves. She’d mark down their places after she sat back down. Two of the binders were on the shelf when once again, a finger trailed up her back. But instead of flicking the ends of her hair, the trailing finger draw a line across her cheek. “Mr. Golden, we’ve talked about this.” Celeste said calmly, putting the last binder up and feeling quite glad vampires didn’t generally blush.

The Nosferatu came into view, leaning casually on against the shelf in Celeste’s line of sight. “Which part?” he asked, tone somewhere between playful and an intimate growl.

Celeste shot him a look, then turned away to go back to the desk. “Using the loading entrance.”

“Well when it’s _unlocked_ , princess.” Gary replied, following her a little closer than what could be considered polite.

“Because you unlocked it, no doubt.” Celeste scolded drily, giving him a look as she sat down again.

“Guilty as charged. I promise, I locked it after I got in.” he said, leaning on the desk.

“If you haven’t, I _will_ find a way to ban you.” she said, picking up a pen to make the notes she needed to make.

He made a theatrical shudder. “You _are_ a terror, Madame Librarian.” Gary said warmly. “And while I’m shaking in my shoes, I have a proposition for you.”

Celeste raised an eyebrow. “And I’m sure it’s perfectly indecent, so--” she started to decline, but the Primogen stopped her with a finger, nearly touching her lips.

“ _Just._ Listen.” the Nosferatu said. “I have a key in my pocket; for the Luckee Star, over in Hollywood?” he reached into his pocket and pulled the cabin-key out, the tacky yellow tag embossed with an ‘8’ that had no color left to it.

“...what hotel still uses _keys_?” Celeste asked skeptically.

“The kind you go to to have torrid affairs.” Gary replied, dropping the key onto the blotter on Celeste’s side of the desk. “Passionate, _nasty_ , fun…” he trailed off, looking at her expectantly.

Celeste looked at the key on her desk, and then up at the Primogen. “…why?”

Gary raised an eyebrow. “Why the Luckee Star? It’s in the right neighborhood and doesn’t ask that many questions.”

Celeste was _very_ glad vampires didn’t generally blush. “I assumed _that_ much. I mean why are you--I mean you’re asking _me_ , right? Why?”

The Nosferatu blinked, expression incredulous. “You’re--I-- _what_?” he pinched the bridge of what was left of his nose. “ _Because_ , Celeste, I’m interested in you.” he said slowly and deliberately.

“Since _when_?” She asked after failing to stifle a string of amused snorts. After wiping her eyes and cleaning her lenses, Celeste startled at the unamused (and frankly _angry_ ) look on the Nosferatu’s face. “What?”

“Either you’re trying to run a grift or you _really_ , really need to work on your socials, sweetheart.” He said flatly.

Celeste shook her head. “No, no scams here, I am genuinely asking.”

Gary shook his head, chuckling into his palm before turning his full attention on her sharply, both hands on the raised part of the desk, leaning over it and looking very much like an angry vulture. “Lacroix’s dog-and-pony murder show.” he started. “You’re sitting up in the balcony with a book and _those eyes_. Bette Davis can’t touch’em. That got my interest first.” he practically hissed.

Celeste swallowed, wondering if she shouldn’t be more concerned about the intensity of the Nosferatu’s presence.

“Then find out you’ve got legs better than Lana Turner’s.” He smirked.

“You said you wouldn’t bring that up!” Celeste scolded, still mortified all these months later: finding out vampires _could_ in fact get drunk _and_ that she still had a tendency to send suggestive photos _while_ tipsy in a short span was just…well, it was mortifying.

“Sorry, princess.” Gary replied. “I might go out of my way to annoy most people, but there are _very_ few I try to seduce with furniture.” he drummed his nails against the wood. “Now this key’s a limited time offer; we’d have to clear out by 3:00.”

Celeste’s eyes flicked to her watch. “I’m supposed to be working.” she replied through numb lips, not registering what time it was.

Gary shrugged. “That can always be tomorrow’s problem.” He winked. “I think I’ll head over there now…remember, the Cinderella hour is 3:00.” he eased back away from the desk…and blew her a kiss before disappearing from view.

After the door to the archive opened and closed again, Celeste forced herself to take a breath. The air was still charged, electric, full of promise. But it was one thing to skip work to go dancing for a few hours, it was another to skip out to go…and did she even _want_ to go? It had been years since she’d gotten intimate with anyone; like before even _being_ Turned _._ Celeste picked the key up. There was _so_ much to do in the Archive to boot…

When Celeste let herself into the motel room, Gary was lounging on the bed. “Cut it awfully close, princess.” he said smugly, on his feet in the blink of an eye.

“Don’t call me ‘princess’.” Celeste said faintly, closing the door and pressing her back to it as the Nosferatu invaded her space again. This time, if she took a deep enough breath, they would just barely touch.

“You know how to stop me.” He replied. “The same rules still apply.”

“Lemon fizz,” she said quietly. As Gary drew back, a flicker of disappointment on his face, she finished her sentence, “kiss me.”

The Primogen grabbed her shoulders and forced her up onto her toes, to put their mouths at even heights before he planted the requested kiss.

Celeste couldn’t stifle the moan as the Nosferatu’s well-sculpted lips pressed against hers. The kiss was firm and insistent without being probing, and it would have left her breathless if either one of them had to breathe. When the kiss finally broke, Gary was staring at her with the same _hungry_ look he’d wear during their moments at the archive. Then she found herself on the bed, straining the springs in the mattress with a couple of hard bounces. Before Celeste’s head stopped spinning, Gary was on top of her.

He caught _both_ of her wrists in one hand and pinned them to the bed, his free hand pulling her leggings midway down her thighs before cupping her over her panties roughly.

It was rough and a little frightening, and _incredibly tantalizing_. There was blood in the kiss; she wasn’t sure if it was hers or his, from their teeth getting in the way during the almost frantic and nearly never-ending kiss. His fingers were wickedly clever, finding her clit easily despite the fabric of her underwear still being in the way. The Nosferatu pressed and pinched at her through the cloth until her hips bucked and she cried out. Then Gary hooked a finger around the sodden layer of cloth and yanked it aside roughly, pressing two of his long, strong fingers deep into her. He was fast and mean, almost prophetic in his ability to find the places that would make her squirm and thrash.

Celeste couldn’t keep her voice down; Gary’s fingers were too strong and insistent and determined. “ _Fuck_ -fuck-fuck- _FUCK!_ ” she howled as his fingers hooked cruelly on the spot just below her belly-button and she near kneed the Primogen with both knees. She heard him cackle, then tasted his mouth again. Celeste regretted showing up an hour and a half before the Primogen’s motel-sponsored deadline; he’d already made her come more in something like fifteen minutes than her last ex had in like an hour of fooling around.

Gary adjusted his grip on her wrists and how far her arms were stretched, then buried his face in her neck as his fingers kept pumping away. He teased with tongue and teeth roughly, but with a blunt edge.

She _should_ have been afraid of him biting down more, of losing too much blood in bliss or as part of some long con plan of an older vampire; but all Celeste could focus on was the way he played her nerves. He’d started thumbing her clit as his fingers explored deep, and his tongue was curiously rough, tracing where a pulse normally would throb. He hooked _that_ spot again, chuckle rumbling in her ears as she curled defensively against the shock. Celeste felt wetness eking out around his fingers and starting to pool on the bedding underneath her butt. She was drowning in pleasure and cologne and a touch of guilt. When he hooked _that_ spot again, Celeste caved. “Le-le-lemo-lemonizz!” she garbled.

The Primogen’s fingers came free with an embarrassing wet sound. He let go of her wrists and shifted to sit on the edge of the bed beside her, eyes on her face and making a show of licking his fingers clean.

Celeste’s body twitched, her nerves singing and on fire. “Holy _fuck_ …” she rasped; was her throat _actually_ sore? How loud had she been?!

“Show up earlier next time, I’ll _really_ get you singing.” Gary taunted.

Celeste rolled her eyes, trying to adjust her glasses. They still seemed canted, so she pulled them off to inspect. “ _Hell_ …” she muttered, feeling out the bent frame.

“I’ll buy you a new pair.” The Primogen said casually.

“ _You_ can’t; I’ll have to go to Lenscrafters as soon as I get up tomorrow.” Celeste replied, shaking her head.

“Why bother?”

She snorted, and in a rare-for-her-move, handed the glasses to the Nosferatu. “Bette Davis eyes don’t work very well.” Celeste explained, watching as the blurry Primogen examined her glasses.

“You…were not kidding. Well, pardon me princess, I thought it was just an affectation.” Gary replied, handing the bent frames back gently.

“I wish,” Celeste grunted as she gracelessly got off the bed, wincing as she pulled her underwear and leggings back up; they were wet and cold even to her, “but I’ve had that pair for years, they were due a screw-up of some kind by now.” she shrugged. “You want me to leave the key on the dresser?” She asked as she worked to straighten her clothes.

“Leaving already? _Ouch_ , princess.”

“ _Stop_ calling me that.” Celeste replied. “And…I have to. Sometimes Strauss comes by, towards the end of my work night.” she shrugged, as if it didn’t bother her.

“Well, _well_ …I wouldn’t have pegged him as a mother hen. Shows what I know.” Gary smirked. “Go ahead and leave the key…I’ll send you another.”

“I might not come.” Celeste replied; it was mostly just for show, to pretend some dignity. She was embarrassed and satisfied and guilty all at once.

“ _Oh_ , if I get my way princess, you will.” Gary replied easily.

Celeste rolled her eyes, dropping the key on the dresser and leaving. She would have enough time to get back to the archive and get calm enough to put Strauss off, if he showed up. And if Gary sent her another key for the ugly little Hollywood hovel…


	5. Penitence: Interrupted

** **Another Lovely Day in California** **

****And Everything Is FINE, Stop Questioning** **

The ghoul who had come to check on her penitence the last time had scuffed the ground around her, disrupting the ring around her. Every fiber of her body _screamed_ for blood and rest; she was so tired, and so miserable. A scratching sound in her closet sent Celeste into a frenzy of motion, punching through the actual drywall to seize a pair of mice who had somehow found a way into the Chantry, as odd and inconsistent as it was. She despised herself for it, but Hunger _demanded_ the scant few drops they contained, and she needed to be able to focus. Spite would have to do in place of a decent meal; there were a couple of hours left before everyone would rise for the night. It wouldn’t make up for the earlier part of the punishment, but it was better than nothing. And then she would kiss Strauss’ ass (or submit to something more awkward and physical, if she had to) and slink back to the archive. From there…well, from there, she would either sign her death warrant OR forge the key to her freedom. The outcome would be determined by things she was too tired to guess at, for the moment.

With only a couple of hours of daylight and punishment left, Celeste didn’t so much enter torpor as dip into whatever the vampiric equivalent of a catnap was. The dream was scattered, rubbery and cartoonish: there were two Garys (one whose face she knew, and the other she’d only seen on TV), and Vinny’s voice came out of a lion’s mouth, as Circe and Mitnick waltzed in and out of the scene dressed as calculators. It was fevered nonsense, but at least it wasn’t some blood-soaked mania.

When her door opened, and the Chantry’s favorite-of-the-week poked his head in, Celeste raised her head. She smiled at his look of utter disappointment.

“Well…clean yourself up and get downstairs. Strauss wants you.” he snapped before slamming the door.

Celeste got to her feet groggily, opting for the easiest clothes to pull on. Her fingers were clumsy, limbs heavy and uncooperative. She didn’t think to pick up her phone to see what had been said while she’d been kept from the world. What surprised her most about the level of exhaustion she had reached was the utter sense of calm that was washing over her; maybe it was because she had a plan. Or maybe she’d just reached the state of tired where indifference reigned supreme.

Strauss was posing by the fireplace as usual. He took in her sluggish state with cold eyes, then gestured to the goblet on the table. “You may have _one_ sip. Then you will resume your duties at the archive. Sebastian may be gone, but the Camarilla remains.” he said sternly.

Celeste was dimly aware of his words, of the _weight_ of them. Something in her blood responded to them, but that something struggled against the exhaustion. She picked up the goblet and heard--just for a moment--Circe’s hysterical voice. She put the glass to her lips, felt the warmth of the vitae against her upper lip…but she could not make her mouth move properly to actually take the sip. Her throat mimed swallowing, and she set the glass down before Strauss could accuse her of more disobedience.

He smirked, and threw a linen napkin on the table. “Wipe your mouth, and go. And I hope this has taught you the importance of obedience, and pride.”

Celeste dabbed at her lip, tempted by the smell of blood to suck the cloth. But _that_ would count as disobedience too. She folded the napkin neatly and set it down, leaving the room quietly. After retrieving her phone and her bag, Celeste made her way back to the archive slowly. The city didn’t stink as bad as it normally did; she was _definitely_ too tired to be functional.

Circe was waiting for her by the door, a picnic basket on her arm. “Friend!” she cried, bouncing on the balls of her feet.

Celeste didn’t answer as she unlocked the door and stepped inside, allowing Circe in before closing it and locking it. “I need…I need…” she mumbled.

“I have! I brought!” Circe replied, grabbing her arm and dragging her to the chair behind the desk, pushing her into it before setting the basket down and opening it.

Never had Celeste been as happy to see a Thermos as she was in that moment. The blood inside was lukewarm and a little old, but it was mana from heaven as far as her hunger was concerned. She drank slowly to keep from throwing it back up.

“A second sup waits for your slow suckle.” Circe said, kneeling. “My friend, my good friend, what cruelty done to you begs retaliation!” she declared.

Celeste shook her head. “Stop. _Stop_ , and let me think…and move, I need that drawer beside you.” She gestured, turning towards the desktop and trying to get it arranged; one hand on the Thermos and space to write. She _needed_ space to write!

“What possible good does more paperwork do in this instance?” Circe demanded, opening the largest drawer and peering in. There was a collection of journals wrapped in thin leather. “Some spellbook? I’ll go get the newts!”

Again, Celeste shook her head. “No. No, more dangerous than that.” she said thickly, finishing the first Thermos of blood. “Here,” she said as she passed it to Circe, “I have to write, and I need you to be _very_ quiet.”

“If you feed.” Circe replied, tone stubborn and face mutinous. She stood, going into the picnic basket again and pulling out the second Thermos.

Celeste nodded, accepting it. She sipped and she wrote; fortunately, by the time the blood was gone, so were the words. She was glad she’d managed to keep up with everything in spite of Circe and Gary and Lacroix and everything else. “Circe?” The Malkavian knelt, mis-matched eyes focused hard on her. Celeste took a deep breath. “I need you to take this,” she rewrapped the collection of journals, tying them firmly with cord, “and I cannot know what you do with it, or where you put it. I can’t even know if you read it.” She said firmly. “There’s an address on the inside cover… _if_ you decide to send it, I can’t know.”

Circe frowned. “Such weight is in my hands, but you cannot know if I share in the knowledge? Why?”

“I can’t.” Celeste said grimly. “This is important. This is _the most_ important, Circe. Please. I am…I am quite literally putting my life in your hands, and I have to trust that you understand that I can’t know anything about it once you leave here with it.” She saw the stubborn, mutinous look bloom on Circe’s face again. “I just _can’t_. And you’re the one I’m trusting to trust me. You, and you alone. Can you understand?”

The Malkavian pursed her lips, hugging the bundle to her chest. “My discretion? Absolute, utter, unknowing?”

Celeste nodded. “Yes. Yes, exactly. Please, Circe. This’ll help me, more than you might know.”

Circe took a deep, forced breath. “If you say, then I’ll do; if you’ll do one for me.” she tempered.

Celeste frowned. “Circe, I’m too tired for the riddles.”

She shook her head. “Just close your eyes, and hear the door. Then keep your eyes closed, and try not to follow Morpheus, if he comes to you at all…he comes to me in fragments.” she added distractedly.

“Fine, fine.” Celeste sighed, closing her eyes. It was a struggle to keep from slipping into torpor; damn Circe and her riddles and damn Strauss and his cruelty! She heard the door open and close, and leaned back in the chair. Then a cold hand cupped her cheek, startling her. Celeste’s eyes snapped open. “ _Gary_ \--” she gasped, before shutting her eyes again. It was too late; the pain of defying Strauss’ orders ripped through her. She slammed her hands over her mouth to keep from losing everything Circe had fed her.

Gary frowned, grabbing her wrists. “Look at me, damn it!” he growled as she struggled against him.

“I _can’t_!” Celeste managed to get out.

He opened his mouth to argue, but the light caught the sheen of vitae-laced blood on her forehead. Gary let go of her wrists. “…word games? Really?” he said, voice full of derision.

“Sometimes, _yes_ ; that is how I get around it.” Celeste replied. “I’m too tired, and still too…” she shrugged; ‘drained’ didn’t have the same context when you were a vampire. “To be able to put up with the pain.” she finished. “It _hurts_ Gary, when I try to fight him. Sometimes, bad enough to make me…to bring me very close to the point of _losing control_.” Celeste explained.

The Nosferatu rubbed his lips, trying to master his temper. He squatted in front of his witch, resting his arms on her thighs and looking up at her face. She looked like _hell_ (at least compared to how he liked to see her): her skin was waxy and pale, tautly outlining the angles of her face; she was cold to the touch--legitimately _cold_ , and her hair hung in limp hanks; like clay roughs of before a sculptor went to work shaping it. “Princess, you look like hell.” Gary said at least.

“Makes sense, I feel like it too.” Celeste replied; there was something in Gary’s voice, something very emotional and _human_ that took the sting out of his statement. “You…you _do_ get that it’s not my idea, don’t you?” she hated how small and unsure her voice sounded.

“ _Oh, princess_ …” Gary reached up, cupping her cheek again. He stroked her cheekbone with his thumb, ignoring the stickiness of vitae-laced sweat. “I do. Rainbow-Brite came barreling into my room the night after you…after your message. Wasn’t making much sense, but I got her point eventually.”

Celeste nodded. “Good. I told her to let you know…I kinda wish she wasn’t so screwball sometimes, but…” she shrugged as she trailed off.

“Well, Nicky likes her and she does alright by us.” Gary replied dismissively. He tucked a clump of hair behind her ears, and eased her glasses off. Seeing the little divots left by the nose pieces was more disturbing than the pallor; she was obviously running on fumes. “I uh…I got a proposition for you, princess.” He started, brushing more of her hair out of the way. “Won’t force it on you, but I’m making you a blood offer.”

She shook her head, grabbing his wrist with numb fingers and pulling it away from her face; pulling away the temptation as something inside protested wordlessly. Maybe it was the Beast, or maybe it was just plain desperate self-preservation. It didn’t matter which; Celeste had already made her plans. “No.”

“Why not? Think I’ll do you some of the same kind of way?” Gary demanded.

Celeste smiled faintly. “No, actually. Promise not to make fun of me?”

The vulnerability in her voice made his withered heart ache. “You keep pinning me with serious talk, princess, I’ll get the idea this is more than just fooling around.” He made the joke, just to make it. The chance to avoid _this_ going beyond fooling around had long passed.

“It’s probably silly, isn’t it? After all, you’re older, and a Primogen, and I’m nothing and no one--as far as my clan’s concerned.” Celeste shrugged again. “But I’ve made worse decisions before. The only thing I regret right now is not demanding you pick a different motel; I _hate_ the sheets at the Luckee Star.”

Gary snorted, then cackled. He leaned closer, one knee on the concrete, to wrap his arms around her waist and rest his head on her chest. “Alright princess, if you’re gonna live up to the name, I guess I’ll step it up.” he replied, voice shaking just a little on the last word as she wrapped her arms around his head and rested her cheek on the top.

“I need you to trust me about this.” Celeste said softly, running her fingers over the skin on the back of his head. “And the next time you offer--if you ever offer again--let it be because you want to be linked like that, and not because you’re afraid I won’t wake up tomorrow night.”

He debated protesting the accusation of fear, for the sake of his ego. But as usual, his witchy librarian had it right and to the quick. “Alright…if you clue me in on your grand idea, princess.”

Celeste kissed the top of his head. “I’ve been with Strauss for fifteen years. A year before that, with my actual sire.” she started.

 _That_ was something to know. Gary knelt quietly, ear pressed to her chest and ears pricked; there were eaves to drop and that took priority over savoring cuddles.

“I wrote a confessional--a journal. Of everything I’d ever seen, or heard, or witnessed. I’m pretty sure a lot of it isn’t uh…it wouldn’t be looked at too favorably by _a lot_ of people. Especially the ones that matter.” she continued.

“Like?”

“Well…the Camarilla, I guess; although I don’t know who or where the main governing body might be. I don’t even know if there really _is_ one, or if it’s just whatever old-timer has decided he’s in the big seat for the night.” she shrugged.

“That about sums it up.” Gary said drily.

“But the seat of the Chantry--of my clan--is Vienna. My Turning might be enough to get me killed, but I _know_ some of the stuff that’s gone on here would get more than a few of my clanmates here killed…including Strauss.”

Gary licked his lips, giving her a little squeeze. Blackmail was such a good tool!

“The thing is, I can’t _tell_ any of those secrets. Like I tried to explain to you before,” Celeste rubbed her cheek against the top of his head, “ _so_ I gave the confessional to Circe.”

 _That_ startled him; Gary drew back, cupping her face with both hands. “Princess, sweetheart…are you off your _nut_?” he demanded.

Celeste smiled “That’s just it. _I can’t tell, and I can’t share it_. But, _but_ if I just put the books in someone else’s hands, and I don’t know what they do _after…_ I’m still in the clear.”

“Why not my hands, princess?” Gary asked, a little offended.

“Because I _have_ to not know, and I can’t be able to guess easily…I love you, but you would read it and either mail it or smear Strauss to the Cam as soon as you got done.” Celeste said, the frankness in her voice making _every_ part of the statement a hard fact. “Circe being the way she is, I have _no_ idea what she’ll wind up doing. I can only guess, and guesses don’t really count with a Malkavian.”

Gary snorted, taking her hands in both of his and kissing every cold, stiff fingertip. “My conniving little witch, my devious little princess with the sky-high legs.” He shook his head. “You might’ve made a good Nos.”

“You’d be a terrible Tremere, and that’s another part of your charm.” Celeste replied. “That, and your perverse streak. And your kissing talent. _And_ your body.”

He blinked, taken aback. “Not that I don’t like the compliments, but…don’t say it like this. Like you think I won’t drag it out of you at the end of a rope on a fun night…ok?” Gary’s voice ended on a soft night; it was pure superstition, something that tended to drive Kindred mad in the long run. But he did _not_ want her to say goodbye this way, not when everything was up in the air and there wasn’t a clear way out yet.

“There’s so much I don’t get to be honest about, Gary. I feel like shit, and being able to say that without it hurting…it was good to say it.”

He shook his head, cupping her face again. “Enough. Alright? …Please?” he added after a pause, as an afterthought.

Celeste opened her eyes slowly, squinting as the pain started again. “You’re just going to have to trust me.” she said quietly.

Pink tears rolled down her cheeks. Gary drew a hand over her eyes, feeling the tickle of her lashes as she obediently closed them. Then he wiped her cheeks clean. “I know Rainbow-Brite brought you dinner, _are_ you gonna be ok tonight?”

“I will. I’m nauseous, and stuffed.” Celeste replied. “Gary?”

“Yeah, princess?”

She forced a breath, wincing as it strained parts that were still stiff with exhaustion. “Say…say I went Anarch. Does that ruin things between us?”

Gary snorted. “Sweetheart, did you forget? Our favorite little Malkavian’s on that side of the street, at least on paper. As long as you didn’t start recruiting, and we kept to the ‘no politics in bed’ policy…we’ll be alright.” he reassured her.

“I needed to hear that…you’d better go.” Celeste’s hands found his shoulders, and squeezed. “Give me three days. Or nights, whatever…obviously, my internal clock is _really_ fucked up right now.” she snorted. “Just…trust me.”

“Alright.” Gary stood slowly, and cupped her face again. “Try to stay out of more trouble, alright?” he murmured, before stooping to kiss her forehead.

“What trouble did a girl ever get into in a library?” Celeste replied tiredly, though smiling.

He snorted, kissed her forehead again, and drew away slowly. The nights could be unfair, and Kindred were--as a general rule--a squabbling bunch of suckers clawing for power that was as fleeting as snow in the desert; but there were times when the squabbles got deeply personal. Gary supposed if he hadn’t started up and kept up an affair with the leggy librarian, this big dose of unfairness wouldn’t matter; at most, he _might_ be moved to a little sympathy for the Malkavian (there weren’t too many scenarios that he could think of where Rainbow-Brite didn’t make friends, she was just _like that_ ). But he had, and it was personal, and if it took a few years…he’d find a way to make Strauss good and miserable. And if his princess met her Final Death at his hands? Well then, it’d be a private war between the Tremere and the Nosferatu in California.


	6. Freedom

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains a rather graphic depiction of violence committed against the protagonist by Strauss. It may be triggering, so if you do not deal with with depictions of domestic violence, go ahead and skip this chapter. The next is the aftermath, in which our heroine finds hope and safe harbor with the Anarchs.

It took more than three nights for Celeste to feel ‘back to normal’. She’d underestimated how badly deprived Strauss’ ordered penitence would leave her. In fairness, it had been the longest punishment she’d received and surviving earlier, shorter punishments had given rise to a false confidence. Regardless, after three weeks (three long, dull, seemingly endless, seemingly friendless, assuredly lover-less weeks), Celeste decided to make her move. She dug the old, battered hardback suitcase out of her closet, and packed what mattered: gifts and sentimental things, and the clothes she’d bought with Circe--things that didn’t reek of the Chantry and her time within. Then she sent a text to Circe, to let the Malkavian know to look for her at the Last Round, possibly during her shift.

That the little dive (and other Anarch holdings) ran a little like a co-op, with vampire and ghoul Anarchs rotating staff positions was honestly admirable. Celeste still had her doubts about the Anarch cause--a free state was a grand idea, but what would _really_ keep the Anarchs from basically pulling the same stunts as the Camarilla did: all the power-grabbing and double-talk, just under a new banner. But for the time being, while she planned to stay in California, Celeste would go where the Malkavian went. Her friend, though mad, still knew what _real_ loyalty was.

Celeste crept down the stairs, tense and alert. The sun had gone down just a little while ago, and the Chantry was by and large still in early waking ritual time. All she had to do was get out the door and be on her merry way into the night. Fuck the Chantry, fuck the pit of an ‘archive’, and fuck the grand Pyramid scheme that was the Tremere.

“Neonate. Where are you going with that trundle, I wonder.” Strauss said slowly; he had _not_ expected to see his regrettable get creeping down the stairs with a suitcase in her hand. “ _Answer._ ” he said sharply.

“I’m…I’m leaving.” Celeste replied, tightening her grip on the handle of the suitcase. She could full the pull in her blood, her _bones,_ but it wasn’t as sharp as when he’d ordered her penitence. “I’m leaving.” she repeated.

The _audacity_ of young vampires these days! Strauss snapped his fingers, expecting to see the foolish girl drop to her knees in pain; while her legs wobbled and she fell hard against the door, she remained on her feet. “You _worthless_ little whelp,” Strauss hissed, clearing the space between them fast and grabbing her by the throat, “you do _not_ deny me, _ever_.” he snarled.

Celeste grit her teeth as Strauss’ talent put pressure on her throat, even though his grip was only firm--not choking. “Let. Me. Go.” she managed to get out.

“You will die. To leave the Pyramid is to go to your death, you _stupid_ little wretch.” Strauss warned. “Are you so eager to die? Tell me, and I will give you a death fit for a stupid little bitch.” he swore.

She wished she’d texted Gary too, before trying to go for the door. The suitcase dropped with a loud thud as the feeling in her fingers went. “Don’t--you’ll regret--” she managed to gasp out.

“You have no power but what _I_ give you, or do you forget?” Strauss demanded.

“Vienna.” Celeste spat.

Strauss physically recoiled, taking half a step back. “What about the Seat?” he demanded. If they had been in contact with a know-nothing neonate…he might be in trouble.

“Sixteen years, Strauss--sixteen years of secrets, starting with my turning.” Celeste hissed, rubbing her throat to try and ease the pain. Her skin prickled as vitae flowed again to heal the damage Strauss managed below the skin. “I wrote it down. Everything.” she smiled so wide it made her face hurt. The murderous look on Strauss’ eyes made her knees shake. “I wrote it down, and I gave it away!” she giggled, hysterical. Why was she _like this_ in this moment?!

Domination was more smoothly done by the Ventrue, or even the Toreador, but Strauss had not survived the centuries shying away from useful abilities outside the Pyramid. “To who? _Answer me_.” he demanded, focused on the traitor with every fiber of his being. When she broke, she would go to the labs, and _maybe_ he would finally get a replacement for the mistake that still occupied the old Chinese theater.

Celeste slid down the door, another giggle bubbling out of her. Maybe this was what it was like to be Circe--if she survived, she would _never_ begrudge the Malkavian another manic episode. This hysteria was painful! “The Malkavian!” she crowed. “I gave it to the Malkavian! The address to Vienna is within it! She may read it, she may tear it up for confetti, she may send it, _and I will never know_ because who knows with Malkavians!” Celeste bubbled. “But she is my _friend_ and she’ll look for me tonight, and tomorrow night, and tomorrow night after that! If she doesn’t see me, if she cannot find me, who knows what she’ll do with _all of those secrets_!” Celeste cackled, tears streaming down her cheeks. She was _so_ close to freedom, it wasn’t fair that it was going to get snatched away like this.

Strauss took a deep breath, eyeing the traitor hard. He’d never liked gambling; it was time to weigh the options. That the damned Malkavian had regular contact with this whelp was no great secret; he would have thought that his influences would have made her more discreet _and loyal_ , but he’d clearly underestimated her. She had, _somehow_ , figured a way around at least some of the commands of the blood. Perhaps this was what Jarvis had meant to capitalize on when he took her. “That was _very_ foolish of you, neonate.” he said slowly. “Do you understand that your Embrace _was not meant to be_? The reveal of which would be your death sentence more than mine.”

“Either you’ll kill me now, or Vienna does _if_ they find out; death either way for me, but death for you just one way.” Celeste gambled. The burn in her bones and blood warned away from trying to name what Circe would do with the confessions; her grand escape would be undone if she didn’t continue to _play dumb_ successfully!

“I underestimated you. That was a mistake.” Strauss conceded. “I am _impressed_ ,” he purred, stepping close to the traitor and offering his hand, “you are even more of an asset to us than I had guessed. Do not abandon us so quickly, neonate; I sense your frustrations, and I _will_ grant you privileges. I will rescue you from the dreary basement of the Camarilla’s half-baked plans…you _belong_ within the Pyramid.” he said soothingly.

Celeste looked at his hand, then up at his face. The pain that had flared when she veered to dangerously close to a guessable truth faded, soothed by the sudden turn of his mood. She looked at his hand again. “Privileges?” she repeated softly.

It took great strength not to smirk, or gloat out loud. Of _course_ , even with his lessened influence, the promise of knowledge would sway this one. He would just have to do a better job of keeping her leashed in the future. “What you think you have seen, what you think you know…they are _daydreams_ compared to the _real_ truth.”

She took a deep breath.

Strauss waited expectantly for her admittedly elegant hand to slip into his.

“No.” Celeste said, getting to her feet while pressed to the door, avoiding any chance of contact with Strauss’ deceptively powerful hands. “No. No more broken promises. No more lies. I want out, and you can kill me and risk Vienna learning what’s gone on under you…or you let me walk out of here, with my life…and I will do my best to persuade the Malkavian to make confetti.” she tempered. The truth was, if Circe had made up her mind to do something, there would be no persuasion possible…but the empty promise sounded good, at least.

Strauss struck her then, backhanding her with the hand he’d offered in false peace, with all the force he could muster; the shoulder seam of his coat tore with the effort. The whelp cried out, crashing into the coat rack by the door to the outside, her glasses falling to the floor. He grabbed her by the hair and delivered two sharp punches to the middle of her face, relishing as her nose collapsed beneath the onslaught. “Let us see if your insight does not improve with this.” Strauss snarled, delivering one more punishing, blinding stroke to her face before opening the door. He dragged her onto the walkway by her hair and threw her towards the roadway. “You will _burn_ if you set one traitorous foot on our sacred grounds again.” Strauss spat. “Consider this your liberation, since you so wish it; but do _not_ think to threaten me with Vienna again.” With that, he returned to the sanctity of _his_ Chantry.

Celeste dragged herself across the roadway, trailing blood and tears, mewling the whole way. The further she got away from the Chantry, the less her body burned. Once her fingertips brushed the building across the street, the only pain was in her face. She managed to get herself into a seated position, whimpering as she guided her jaw back to where it was _generally_ supposed to hang. There was strength enough to affix it, but not much left to restore her nose to normal…and there was nothing touching the pain in her eyes. Celeste tentatively touched around them, feeling swollen bruised skin and wetness, and _mercifully at least_ her actual eyes. Downtown was a jaded place, but she doubted she would be able to wander the streets with gaping holes obvious on her face. She reached into her pocket for her phone, and felt it come apart in pieces…so much for trying to _call_ for help. Celeste huffed, walking her hands up the bricks behind her to help keep balance as she got to her feet. There were shortcuts to the Last Round; Circe had shown them all to her over the nights. She just had to trust her memory and fight past pain that turned her stomach.

And she would, because she was _free_.


	7. At the Last Round

It was fortunate that the Last Round had a _smell_ you could find, even with a pretty busted nose; it was even more fortunate that Bob had been in one of the alleys she’d wandered down by accident. The old drunk had been outraged at the state of her, and ready to ‘take ol’ Cutty to yer old man’s throat’ (a threat that--while sincere--lost some efficacy in the cloud of alcohol vapor that wrapped around it); but with the promise of free drinks for the night _indoors_ , Celeste had been able to rely on his eye to help her get to the bar.

“Jus’ a’nuvver coupla stepsh, tha’sh it.” he cooed, pushing open the door to the bar. “Now whooser girl?”

“Circe--Circe’s her name.” Celeste said.

“WHERESH SISSY!” the old man bawled, ignoring the stares as patrons and staff turned around to eye him, sneering at his rags and wandering eye. The ones who saw the bloody girl on his arm made audible noises of discomfort, setting off a din of muttering and speculation that competed with the jukebox.

“It’s Circe--” Celeste corrected, head pounding. Was it the music, or footsteps, or just her body screaming for blood and a place to heal?

“The _fuck_ are you doing here, witch!” Damsel had poked her head downstairs, to figure out what the yelling was about; the place was dim and smokey as ever, and she really only recognized the Tremere by her height.

It was Damsel. Because there was never going to be a night that Celeste ventured near the Last Round and _didn’t_ get accosted by the redhead. “Damsel--” Celeste started, too tired to think of something biting to spit back at her.

“You take your Cammy ass outta-- _the fuck happened to you?_ ” Damsel stopped in her tracks. The witch’s face was a mess of blood and bruises, her clothes covered in grime and her arm around the shoulders of one of the guys who usually picked through their dumpster for cans that had a few drops of beer in them.

“I need Circe--and my friend here, he needs a drink. I promised him drinks.” Celeste said, swaying on her feet.

“Uh--CIRCE!” Damsel half turned away from the unlikely pair to bellow. “GET UP HERE!”

“Damned Sail, damned dearest, your damned limes do not cut themselves--” Circe said, appearing in the doorway by the bar, where she’d been doing garnish prep work. It was fortunate she hadn’t carried the knife with her, as she launched herself out of it and bowled a couple of regulars out of the way to reach Celeste. “ _What happened_? What curses have been slung, so wicked and sudden? Striking as the asp struck Nosferatu namesakes, set fire to to tinder never meant to catch?!” she garbled.

“Focus-- _focus_ , please, focus.” Celeste took her arm from around Bob, reaching out. She felt Circe’s hands on her cheeks. “I need your help--but _get Bob a drink first_ , ok?” she said. Bob needed to be in his cups if the Masquerade stood a chance.

“Come on, Bob. You a whiskey man? You look like a whiskey man.” Damsel said flatly, booting a ghoul from the bar stool nearest the door and guiding the old man to it. She signaled to the bartender to keep pouring, then returned to the injured vampire. The Malkavian was frantic, tripping over words, nearly in tears. “Circe-- _Circe_ , girl, calm the fuck down.” Damsel said, putting her hands on the Malkavian’s shoulders. “Go to the fridge, go…you know what to do.” she said patiently. “I’ll take--we’ll go upstairs. It’s quieter up there, quieter’s probably better.”

“Quieter would be nice, yes.” Celeste added.

Circe was gone, moving faster than she should have with a mixed crowd.

“What happened?” Damsel said in a low voice once the Malkavian was out of sight. “Did the Kuei-jin come back?”

“No. No, this was Strauss.” Celeste reached hesitantly in the direction of Damsel’s voice. “I’m--I left.”

Damsel leaned back from the searching hand, frowning. “What do you mean ‘ _you left’_?”

“Damsel, please--please I’m in so much pain, and right now I could throw up all over your Doc Martens. I’m trying not to.” Celeste replied grimly.

The Anarch wrinkled her nose, and stifled a sigh. “Come on.” She reluctantly guided the witch’s arm around her shoulders and navigated the stairs up to the second floor.

“The _fuck_ is going on downstairs?” Skelter demanded. “The _fuck_ is she-- _the fuck_?”

Damsel shook her head, guiding the witch to a seat. “Bob’s by the door. When he passes out, will you carry him to the shelter? He uh…he helped her get her.” she explained.

Celeste rubbed her temples. “He’s a good guy. Just has some problems.” she said in tired defense.

Skelter frowned, the vest-wearing dog at his side keening and pressing against his leg. “We under attack?” He put a hand on the dog’s head, felt the warmth and strength that went beyond just the bulk of the breed.

Celeste shook her head. “No. This was Strauss. _Just_ Strauss.”

“Well…fuck.” Skelter ran a hand over his chin, feeling a faint prickle against his palm. He needed to shave again already; normally that didn’t happen until about 3am. “We sure?” he asked as Circe appeared, a metal pan in her hand.

“Warmed hastily, perhaps unevenly, but still.” She said, shaking her hand until the blisters on her palms disappeared.

Damsel gaped. “The hell did you do, grab it out of the oven barehanded?” she demanded.

Circe shrugged. “Time is pain.” she replied, grabbing a bag out of the pan; it was a water bath that usually lived in the oven, for a quick heat-up if some Kindred showed up needing a drink. There were four more bags in the steaming water. “Here.” she said, pushing the nozzle between Celeste’s lips.

Celeste made a noise of protest, trying to push her off. The blood was alright, a little lukewarm in places, but it would do. She felt Circe’s fingers on either side of the bridge of her nose, biting down on the nozzle as the Malkavian squeezed. It was a necessary move to guide things back into place, but it still hurt like a bitch!

“Drink, drink, drown as Bacchus commands!” Circe said insistently, starting another bag.

“Circe--hey, _hey!”_ Damsel grabbed her wrist. “Why don’t you…why don’t you get some towels? And uh, I think we’ve still got some shirts, from the Baileys’ St. Paddy’s Day promos--what are you, like a small?” she shot this last question at Celeste.

“Large--mediums tend to be belly shirts.” Celeste said slowly.

“Right, right, clean--cleanliness is next to madness is next to sanity.” Circe said, putting the prepped bag into Damsel’s hands and dashing off.

“Thanks, I think.” Celeste said slowly.

“Yeah well…” Damsel shrugged, and eased into a chair across from the witch. “What happened?”

“Strauss didn’t uh…he didn’t take my leaving very--very well.” Celeste replied, frowning. “Am I crazy, or do I hear a dog?”

Damsel glared at her. “Real funny.” she snapped.

“I’m not joking. I cannot _see_.” Celeste replied, gesturing to her face. “And my nose is still knitting back to normal, so sniffing is also pretty unreliable right now.” she added.

Damsel raised an eyebrow, then waved at the witch. Then she flipped the witch off, with both fingers. “…you really _can’t_ see.” she said slowly.

Skelter rolled his eyes, patting the dog again and moving to join the table. “His name’s Bosco.” he said softly, patting the dog’s side before pointing two fingers at the injured Kindred.

The dog looked up at him, eyes brown as agate and soft as down, then nosed the witch’s knee, stepping back when she startled.

“That’s him.” Skelter said gently, gesturing again.

Celeste felt another nudge and forced herself to sit still, She felt a warm, heavy head settle on her knee. “Is it--I mean, can I?” she held a hand out hesitantly.

“Go ahead.”

Damsel raised an eyebrow. Bosco _was_ Skelter’s boy, trained and certified and official and everything, and while he usually helped the vibe of the bar when things got tense, Skelter hardly _ever_ sent him to comfort somebody else.

The fur under her fingertips was short and a little coarse, the skull beneath broad and flat. “Well…hi there.”

“He’s an Am-staff mix.” Skelter explained. “Brown and cream. Had him a couple of years now.”

Celeste wondered where the Gangrel had found all these words to share. Maybe he just felt _that_ bad for her. “I’m sure he’s very handsome…I’m sorry I can’t see him myself.” she said quietly.

“Can you tell us what happened?” Skelter asked.

Damsel frowned, opening her mouth to ask about the marshmallow act Skelter had broken out. She closed it when he shook his head and held up a hand; apparently this was one of those moments where his rare ‘soft touch’ was coming out.

“Strauss caught me when I got to the door…normally he’s not…I mean normally, so close to waking up, he’s not anywhere near the entryway. Tonight, he was. I had my suitcase in my hand.” she shrugged. “I couldn’t…I couldn’t lie.”

Skelter nodded as Damsel’s face went from derision to astonishment. “Right…we’ve heard it’s hard for Tremere to leave their uh…their places.”

“Usually, it’s on pain of death, if they can make it out and then try to return.” Celeste explained.

Damsel fixed the third bag. “I dunno if this’ll help but uh…” she put it in Celeste’s hand and moved the water bath away, before the apparently blind Kindred did more damage to herself.

“Thanks.” Celeste took a breath; two bags had done wonders, but she still couldn’t see. Strauss probably thought he was clever, doing that and then mocking her _insight_. Small-minded, power-hungry bastard. “It uh…it’s helping other hurts. This,” she gestured to her eyes, “is probably permanent. A curse. A very real curse.”

Skelter shook his head. “So…you’ve left them. Why come here?”

“Circe’s here. Or I figured she was here, working tonight. _Her,_ I trust with my life.” Celeste said frankly. “In theory, I have a lot of nights ahead of me. I don’t want to waste them on…on utter bullshit anymore. I want my own life; I didn’t get to _choose_ being a vampire, but I can choose what I do with it now.”

Skelter and Damsel shared a _look._ Neither remarked on the dangerous truth, each choosing instead to focus on bringing the former witch to their side a bit more securely.

“That’s right.” Damsel said firmly as Circe reappeared with towels and a shirt in her arms. “Circe’s coming.”

Celeste smiled a little. “Thanks, but the ringing in my ears is clearing up; I heard her--” she said, before Circe tried to smother her with a wet towel. It was warm; she must have dunked it in the water bath.

“Bosco, here.” Skelter snorted, patting his hip. The service dog gladly retreated from the dripping towel and frantic Malkavian, parking his considerable mass by Skelter once again. “Don’t rip her face off, sugar, she’s already had a bad night.”

“I know the difference between friend and bar top.” Circe replied, flipping the bird at Skelter before putting all her focus on cleaning up Celeste’s face. “Forever do these violent violets bloom, I fear.” she murmured, trying to dab as light as physically possible.

“It’s alright. Is the blood off my face, at least?” Celeste tried not to flinch under the attention.

“Not as clean as a spoon, but cleaner than the whistles. Now trust in me to guide, though I am no Bosco! The restroom by the office has been a changing room more than once, it will do again tonight.” Circe replied.

“Just give me a second, ok? Let me…just let me be.”

Skelter leaned over and touched the Malkavian before she could protest, shaking his head and then pointing down the stairs. Despite the discontented look she shot him, she followed his directions. That was the thing with her; she said some upsetting things at times, and she was a little too unpredictable at times…but when it counted, when it _really_ counted, he could count on her to listen better than Damsel. Speaking _of_ … “The old guy who helped Celeste get in here…would you check on him, Damsel? See if you can’t get him to eat something to soak up some of the booze?”

Damsel rolled her eyes. “ _Fine_.” she got up, and tromped down the stairs. Then it was just the Tremere , the Gangrel, and the pup sitting quietly at the table.

After a few long moments, it was Celeste who broke the silence. “You know…it’s been a warmer welcome than I expected.”

Skelter smirked and shook his head, running a hand down Bosco’s back. “Perks of anarchy.” he replied. “At least, with Nines in charge.”

“In charge? He the Baron now?” Celeste asked.

“Watch your mouth.” Nines said crankily, making his way up the stairs. His gait was still uneven; the wounds from that night in Griffith park were _still_ troubling him. He paused to take in the state of the Tremere’s face. “How you doing?” he asked softly; this was the second time he’d seen somebody slapped with a curse from the Clan of Magical Assholes. As far as he understood, it would be permanent unless she decided to get into some real dark shit.

“I’ve been better. But I’m still basically alive, _so_ …I guess ok.” she replied.

Skelter snorted, then felt Bosco’s tongue on his fingertips. “Try to be nice to each other; I gotta take my boy on an outing.”

“Go on man, Damsel’ll lose her shit if he has another accident on the stairs.” Nines waved the Gangrel off and took his vacated seat. “Mostly because she was the one to step in it last time.” he explained to the now ex-witch.

“I thought animals didn’t like us.” Celeste replied. “Well…rats like the Nosferatu, but in general.”

“Skelter’s a Gangrel. They’ve got a…a _thing_. A knack for getting along with animals, most of them.” Nines said. “As for your question…I’m no baron. I just…kind of got put up after a lot of fights, a lot of losses, and some good stories.”

“Right, the werewolf at the park.” Celeste said.

“Sure.” It was easier to cut it down to _that_ than go into everything else. If the lanky gal wanted a history lesson, she could get it somewhere else. “What brought you here? No offense, but you uh…you ain’t Circe.” Nines said with a snort.

“No, I’m not. Honestly, I’m already beyond tired of politics and power-scrabbling and all the bullshit. What I want, I dunno that I can have, but I do know that it doesn’t burn to sit here in this bar, and one of the very few people I can _actually_ call my friend is here. So I came here, to her. If you all turned me away, I could still count on her to at least point me towards somewhere safe.” she sighed. From head to toe, she was just _tired_. There were moments in the conversation where she felt she could drop off into torpor right then and there.

Nines nodded thoughtfully. “If you decide to join up with us, you’re welcome to. We can work out the details later, after you’ve had some time to uh…you’re not gonna heal, are you?” he studied the ex-witch; aside from two spectacular shiners, she seemed to be in decent shape. For a moment, Nines wondered if she’d snuck any good intel out of Strauss’ shadowy nest; it was a fleeting thought though. If they wanted to take California back, they’d have to focus on kicking out the Cam and beating back the Kuei-jin. Focus on the big picture and then the smaller parts, or else miss the big picture entirely: that was the way to get things done, when you wanted to get things _done_.

“Not entirely, no. But I’m better now than when I showed up, _believe_ me.” Celeste replied. She sighed. “You’re not gonna kick me out, are you?”

Nines rubbed his chin, wincing as his fingers passed over the scars. “No. No, you came here needing help, we’ll help where we can. Just uh…don’t take what Damsel says too personal.”

“I haven’t since the first night I met her.” Celeste said drily. “But thanks.”

“I’ll see if we can move some people around, get Circe off early so she can take you home.” he got up, thumping the table with a fist. “Get as good as you can, then we’ll figure out how else to help you.” he said, before limping off.

Celeste nodded, then sat listening to the rumbling, discordant thrum of life downstairs. It was better than the oppressive silence of the pit archive, and the false silence in the Chantry (that wasn’t even that silent, just annoying--like ringing in your ears at _just_ the right pitch to keep you awake when you wanted to sleep). She felt along the table for the shirt Circe had brought, and on finding it, debated pulling off her shirt to change…but there was no guarantee she was totally alone, so instead she just pulled it on over the undoubtedly grimy shirt she already wore. For the moment, the only real regret she had was not being able to grab her suitcase before getting the crap kicked out of her and _literally_ tossed out. There were things in there she was going to miss dearly. But maybe that was the thing about being a vampire: you picked things up, and eventually they got left behind. But as long as the thing picked up was freedom, and she didn’t lose it again…things would work out. Celeste was relatively sure of this.


	8. The 'Eyes' Have It

“ _Go. To. Work._ ” Celeste said irritably. “I can survive a few hours by myself.” she pushed at Circe’s hands and tried to keep her patience. The Malkavian was the worst mother hen, frantic and occasionally shrill. It had been about a week since she’d moved in with Circe, taking over the room that had once belonged the the redheaded ghoul. “I promise, I won’t do _any_ construction until you get back. Cross my heart.”

Circe pursed her lips, then planted a loud kiss on Celeste’s forehead. “Fine. Fine! I go to earn breading for our fish, as long as _you_ don’t lose the last screws.”

“I _promise_.” Celeste replied, exasperated. “Now go! You’re going to be late. Late- _er_.” she amended. The Malkavian was usually running late; nearly everyone that dealt with her regularly had learned to take it in good faith. “ _Go_.”

“Going, going, gone.” Circe replied, picking her way out of the room. After Heather’s most unfortunate misfortune, she hadn’t any heart to set foot back inside the room after helping Yuki box up her things to send to the lonely grandmother. At least the former hunter ( _hopefully former hunter_ ) had settled into the quiet life with Lily and her family; a child should be a child and not running around hunting the darkness until the darkness consumed her.

Celeste sighed, debating _trying_ to do something with the shelving. It was a useless thought; she could just _barely_ manage getting from point A to point B in the apartment. In her defense--as Circe liked to keep reminding her--it was all still very new to her and she needed to be a lot kinder and more patient with herself. And while the Malkavian _was_ right…it was still frustrating as hell. To avoid temptation, Celeste decided to go hang around the living room until Circe’s shift at The Last Round was over, and she came home.

With the trashcan tucked safely under the bar, Celeste got from her room to the couch with a minimum of toe-stubbing and knee-knocking. That was a bit of a bright side to things; another week or two and she could probably make the transition with _no_ toe-stubbing. She sat on the couch, feeling for the remote on the coffee table. The voice function was decent enough, and she started another of the BBC’s nature documentaries. They were relatively soothing, and filled the hours well enough; but before she could stretch out on the couch to zone out, something caught her attention--a familiar scent.

Since Strauss had cursed her, her nose and ears had been picking up the slack for what was missing. “Gary? Gary!” Celeste called out, moving to the edge of the seat, tense. “I know you’re there…lemon--” she started to say the word, but a strong finger pressed against her lips. She kissed it.

“How’d you know it was me, Princess?” The Nosferatu asked, a little amused. He could guess, but he wanted to hear her say it.

She could just _hear_ him smirking! “Your cologne. Dead giveaway.” The couch shifted a little, the seat dipping a little more next to her. Celeste reached out, feeling along the couch to Gary’s muscular thigh. “There you are.” she said, relieved.

“I was starting to wonder if you’d hung up on me, princess.” Gary said drily. He’d heard about what happened with Strauss, had been dying to rain a little hell down on the bald bastard in retaliation…but he’d been waiting to hear from his girl. The radio silence though; that had broken his heart more than a little. He cupped her face, gentle as he could manage. The eyes that had caught his attention from the balcony way, way back then were buried under bruises and an eerie white haze. “What you got to say to that?”

“Well…it took me a while to pull myself back together after the punishment…and then…” Celeste’s voice trailed off.

“Come on Princess, don’t hold back on me _now_.” Gary replied. He ran his thumb over her cheekbone, then tucked her hair behind her ears. “You owe me.” he pointed out.

“It’s been a lot to get used to.” Celeste said frankly. “It hurts, and I’m learning when I can ignore it. I moved in here--obviously. Circe’s been trying to help me get my room together…I uh…I didn’t get to bring anything with me.” she swallowed, fists clenching where they rested on her thighs.

Gary watched her hands curl. “Nothing?”

“No clothes, none of my books, none of…none of _my_ things.” Celeste shook her head, pulling free of his touch. “I think I’m maddest about that. There were things that were precious to me, and…and I’m sorry. I wasn’t _trying_ to leave things behind.”

Gary chuckled. “Princess, you just made my night. Here I was thinking you didn’t have a sentimental bone in your whole, pretty body.”

Celeste made a face in his general direction.

“Ok, I deserve that.” he chuckled again. “Were you _ever_ going to call me up again?”

“I…I don’t know.” She said, feeling pain and pressure as the blush welled up from her chest. “I…I wanted to, but I was…I was afraid.” Celeste gestured to her face. “I can’t…I mean…do you even wanna still… _fuck_.” she floundered, muttering the last word under her breath.

“Was that the question?” Gary shook his head. “Can I hug you, princess? Can ol’ Gary get you on his lap, where you belong?”

The pressure in her chest and face worsened at the Nosferatu’s purred request. “Oh _Gary_ …” She heard him chuckle as she leaned towards him, hands finding his arms and sliding with his help right onto his lap.

Gary wrapped his arms around her, trailing kisses along her cheek and neck, planting one on her earlobe to boot. She went soft and pliant the way she’d started doing when it was just the two of them. “Don’t ever leave me out cold like that, for that long, again. Got it?” He scolded. “I’m still in.”

Celeste nodded, finding his face with both hands. She traced the line of his jaw with her fingertips; followed the curves and dips of his face to experience it all over again. His lips really _were_ wonderfully sculptural; she bet she could draw them on paper even in the state she was in, with enough time touching them. “Really?”

“Of _course_. What kind of shallow monster do you take me for?” He said with a snort, nipping at her exploratory touch playfully. “What about you, princess? _You still in?”_

Her hands wandered to his neck, relishing the girth of it, the strength of the muscle that lead to his shoulders, the breadth of those same shoulders…she kissed him, hitting the corner of his mouth and then his bottom lip before getting lined up for a proper kiss. “Oh yes. _All_ in, Mr. Golden.” Celeste replied, voice soft and warm and full of desire.

Gary grinned. “How long before your roommate gets home?” he teased.

“Couple of hours…so no props.” Celeste replied cheekily. “I know how you get.”

“I’m going to pick you up now, and you’re gonna point me to your room, and I’ll show you _how I get_.” Gary replied, one arm around her waist and the other sliding under her knees. He waited for her to nod before he did; things weren’t really going to be _that_ different--they’d had to come to this when he blindfolded her: announce, wait for the nod, then do. That kept her from being startled and he got to enjoy every eager little assent. And from now on, she didn’t have to go running off like a naughty girl who’d skipped study hall…


End file.
